Rodeo Star
by Zo One
Summary: Arthur knew Alfred F. Jones. He was the kind of boy that fathers warned their daughters about, one that women giggled about behind their hands. Alfred F. Jones was handsome and he knew it, was talented and he knew it, and he never let a moment go by without reminding everyone that he was – whether it was unconsciously or not.


_Important Notes: _Written for Teenage Mouse/justa-fangirl for a personal Not-So-Secret Santa gift. :P JRSAFJ!

* * *

**Rodeo Star**

Elizaveta smiles at him from across the rounded table, leisurely stirring her iced latte with a thin black straw as she speaks. "Look, I know you're not busy on Saturdays and you've been invited to come. I don't see why not – you have nothing better to do, you know. There are no more culture trips until next month."

Arthur takes another swig of his bottled water, his face scrunching up in distaste as he mentally curses the heat. Why hadn't he gone home to England for the summer? Airfare was a perfectly fine trade for this American Midwestern heat. He supposed he should be grateful he had someone to share is misery with, although Elizaveta, a Hungarian transfer student, had taken to heat much like a fish to water. "I'd rather not. Outdoor activities don't seem pleasing in this weather."

"You make it sound like a little sunshine is the end of the world," she points out. "But come on now, don't ruin _my _weekend because you don't feel like being social for once."

"Then what am I doing right now?"

"Talking to me doesn't count." Elizaveta sucks on her latte for a moment. "You were _invited_ though! Like, by name – sort of – but I mean that's rude if you turn that down. You should at least show up so you don't seem like a complete asshole."

The Englishman only grimaces at the table between them. "We won't have to be there for long, will we?" he asks slowly, bringing a hand to his chin as he thinks over the situation. He doesn't want to seem like some uncultured bastard – not a good image to give the lovely land of England, especially if he was invited. "You promise that we can leave after I say a few hellos to whomever invited us?"

"Yep, I promise. Although I don't think you'll want to. It's all part of the American experience! Or at least the more rural parts, I guess, or so I hear. It's like cowboys – it's going to be really cool!" She twirls a curl from her ponytail around one of her fingers in thought. "I'm sure you'll like it."

Arthur doesn't seem so sure and only mumbles, "We'll see."

* * *

These American summers are, Arthur is convinced, the worst things he has ever experienced (granted he hasn't experienced much beyond the borders of the UK and France, but it's all the same at this rate). He sits next to Elizaveta on wooden, raised bleachers, fanning himself with a hand and wondering if it is humanly possible to actually melt, because he certainly feels like he might be. Fifteen minutes ago he had given up on modesty and had rolled up the sleeves of his tee and the legs of his jeans, as well as peeled off his sneakers so his bare toes curled against the shaded wood of the step just below theirs.

Elizaveta is dressed more appropriately in a tank and shorts with a wide brimmed cowboy hat perched on her head to protect her from the worst of the sun's wrath. Arthur sends her an impatient glare as she simply leans back and soaks in the sun's rays with a carefree smile.

"Can we go now?" he asks, doing his best not to snap or sound too bitter. He looks around briefly, pushing back his sweaty hair from his forehead. American rodeos – it's not something Arthur ever thought he would find himself at, let alone dragged to and forced to melt under the blistering sun as the smell of dirt and manure met his nose. No one around him seems to care, however. They're all smiling, dressed similarly to Elizaveta, but there are more stiff fabrics, buttons and collars, and boots that look straight out of a spaghetti western movie.

"Nope," is Elizaveta's chirped answer. "You haven't said hello to the one who invited you here, and you _promised _that you would, so there's no backing out now."

Arthur grumbles under his breath. "Where the bloody hell are they, then?" he asks, and receives no answer. He glances at Elizaveta and reaches out to flick the brim of her hat. "And where the hell did you get such a stupid hat?"

She gasps and pushes the hat back down. "It's not _stupid_," she protests, stiffening as a pair of young children run beneath the bleachers they're settled on and squeal as they try and catch each other. "You should be nice to me; I'm your ride home."

"Whatever," is Arthur's mumbled response, and he returns to fanning his face and debates on buying another bottle of water – or maybe beer, there is more than plenty of it here, he's noticed, just from wandering glances and the numerous red solo cups that liter the grounds.

Elizaveta makes a keening noise and then tugs on the back of Arthur's tee collar. "Oh look! There he is!" she exclaims pointing past the gated arena and towards a group of men and women on horseback. "He's the one that asked me to invite you today – the one with the black hat."

There is tinny country music playing over the loudspeakers as Arthur follows Elizaveta's trajectory, searching for a rider with a black hat and seeing many. He frowns at her and tries to wipe away sweat from his face with the back of his hand, only managing to spread the uncomfortable moisture further. "Well tell him to get over here, I'm about to overheat and die – and no that's not an exaggeration."

"Uh, well… okay let me try something." Before Arthur can question her, Elizaveta stands and pushes two fingers in her mouth to make one loud, piercing whistle, causing nearly everyone on the fairgrounds stare at her. "Yooooooo!" she yells and waves about.

Feeling second-hand embarrassment, Arthur yanks on the back of Elizaveta's shirt in an attempt to pull her down to sit again as one man detaches from the group and heads towards them on horseback. "What the hell was that?" he hisses at her. He feels even hotter than before and reluctantly undoes the first button of his shirt, _begging _for even the slightest of breezes to brush against his sweaty skin.

Arthur is snapped out of his misery as something soft and whiskered touches the back of his neck and he jolts out of his seat, making the horse that had tried to nibble on the back of his hair toss its head as if spooked. "What the –"

"Well hey there, Liza! 'M glad ya made it!" Arthur stops and looks at Elizaveta, watching her beam and giggle at the saddle-born man before Arthur finally gazes the man's way. He knows him from school; they had shared the same history class.

He knew Alfred F. Jones. He was the kind of boy that fathers warned their daughters about, one that women giggled about behind their hands. Alfred F. Jones was handsome and he knew it, was talented and he knew it, and he never let a moment go by without reminding everyone that he was – whether it was unconsciously or not. Arthur glances up at the sky and wishes that the sun would just kill and burn him now.

"An' heeeyyy! Arthur ya made it too! Tha's great!" He smiles and it's like the sun took a manifestation on the boy's face just to smite Arthur. Arthur manages a small, ungrateful smile in return. "So how are ya likin' the rodeo so far? It's purdy great ain't it? Ain't nothin' like a day out in the sun, eh?"

"It's killing me," Arthur replies drearily, causing the American to blink. "The sun, not the rodeo," he amends slowly.

Alfred nods. "I guess it's kinda hot out, huh? Do ya need some water? It won't do no good to dehydrate out here, yanno? Lemme buy ya a water."

Arthur is about to thank him and take him up on the offer when Elizaveta interrupts. "Oh let me do that, I have to run to the bathroom anyway. Now's your chance to thank him for inviting you, Arthur." She hops off the edge of the bleachers, landing with a soft thud and straightens to pet Alfred's horse on its soft nose. "Aren't you just a dear?" she mumbles to the horse before taking off with a quick smile and a nod.

"Is she your gal?"

Arthur startles a bit in his seat, moving to look at Alfred instead of glaring at the spot where Elizaveta once stood. "Pardon?"

The American gestures a bit vaguely. "'Liza. Is she yer girlfriend?"

"No," Arthur says stiffly, wiping his forehead again in vain. "And even if she was, I don't see how that's much of your business." He pauses. "Unless… ah she is single, if that's what you're wondering. She's never mentioned anything about having or being in want of a boyfriend, mind you."

"I really like tha way ya talk," Alfred says with another one of those beaming smiles that makes Arthur want to wince, cutting off that trail of conversation effectively.

"So you've told me before," he drawls. So have many people told him, and each time the compliment grows less and less impressive.

Alfred only shrugs at Arthur's disinterest. "A'course I have! I dun like it 'coz it's posh or Britishy or whatever else ya think, it's jus'… it's different yanno? And I like different. Different is what keeps things new an' fun. If ya couldn't tell, there ain't many different things all the way out here in nowhere U.S.A." He leans back in his saddle as the horse beneath him shifts restlessly, the leather groaning as Alfred scratches its flanks absently. "Well, are ya gunna stay for the bronc ridin'?"

"Pardon?" Arthur sighs and wipes the underside of his sweaty wrist on the folded knee of his jeans, grimacing and pausing to check if maybe his skin has melted off too. "To be truthful, I do not know how much longer I can sit in this heat. Nor do I know what "bronc riding" is."

The American nods as if in agreement. "Ya certainly didn't dress fer the occasion, tha's fer sure." He thumbs at the brim of his black hat for a moment and takes it off his head and swiftly pushes down onto Arthur's mussed blond hair. "That aughtta help ya out! When 'Liza gets back, put the cold water on the back o' yer neck, it helps ya from feelin' dizzy."

"I-I can't just take your hat!" Arthur protests, beginning to pull the hat from his head, but Alfred only pushes it back down as his horse begins to shift again.

"Nah don't you worry 'bout that!" He smiles and it's no longer the blinding, sun-kin smile that makes Arthur uncomfortable, but it's something soft and handsome. It's something that makes Arthur uncomfortable for an entirely different reason and the feeling settles like restless butterflies in the cradle of his stomach. "If ya want, when I win the bareback bronc ridin', ya can come find me an' give it back, and maybe ya can give me a "thank you" then." He winks.

Arthur doesn't know what to say, his mouth slightly open as if to protest, but being unable to. His fingers curl around the brim of the hat so he can pull it over his eyes and look away. "An' ta answer yer earlier question, bronc ridin' is classic, I mean I'm sure ya heard 'bout it over in England, yeah?"

Arthur swallows a lump in his throat, choosing to stare at the twitching ears of Alfred's mount than the man. "Ah, you… you must mean the bull riding, then, correct?"

"Aw nah! Bull ridin's got nothin' on broncs! The broncs are the horses! They're wily and ornery and trained ta be some o' the hardest rides! Shit, last year Tornado almost beat me – that bronc is some'in else I tell ya."

"I… I see…" Arthur swallows and feels the need to collapse in upon himself, for the earth to stretch open and swallow him whole. He can see Elizaveta slowly making her way back towards them, walking distractedly as she tries to maneuver through the crowds and peel open peanuts at the same time. "Wh-where should I meet you to return your hat?" he asks quickly.

Alfred points across the arena. "Do ya see that big ole white tent? I'll be in the one right next to it. It's small an' to the… ehmm right when lookin' this way. I'll be waitin' fer ya after I win, an' I'll even give ya a reward!" The American waggles his brows in what Arthur could only imagine is lewd and spurs his horse forward, mumbling, "C'mon now Nova, ya mule, we gotta competition ta win!"

Arthur watches him go, his fingers tangling in the thin leather cord under his chin as he attempts to pull the hat even further down his head to hide himself. Elizaveta joins him soon enough to hand him the bottle of water and Arthur presses the bottle to the back of his neck and sighs at the wonderful chill that falls down the length of his spine. "So what'd you and Alfred talk about?" she asks, flicking the brim of his hat with a lecherous grin.

"I – uhm, well we didn't talk much," he says and shifts into a more comfortable position. "He made me wear his stupid hat because he was deluded and thought that it would help me from this heat."

"They keep your face cool, don't they?"

Arthur gives a half shrug. "I suppose."

She snorts in amusement. "You just don't want to agree with me," she says to no one in particular. For a moment Elizaveta busies herself with opening another peanut. "So did you tell him thanks? Do you want to leave? You were so insistent about it earlier."

"Ah." Arthur stares out at the dirt arena as it was being raked for the next competition: Broc riding. He bites his lower lip. "Actually, I feel much better," Arthur says slowly, rolling the water bottle on the back of his neck. "And I never did get a moment to thank that oaf, I'll have you know. I should do so properly once he's done with his competition."

Elizaveta laughs shortly. "Oh, uh huh sure, I believe you." She smiles roguishly at him and Arthur blinks.

"You know something that I don't," he points out uneasily as the speakers begin to fizzle with a live announcement of the starting bronc riding competition. His fingers twist nervously around the leather strings of Alfred's hat.

There is a curl to Elizaveta's lips that Arthur finds all too familiar and has learned over the year of knowing the Hungarian transfer student that it was never a particularly pleasant smile to see. "Ohhh, I just might! Tell me Arthur, what do you think of Alfred? Honestly now, okay?"

Arthur pauses, letting the sounds of the riled crowds wash over him as the first contestant is set out into arena on a bucking chestnut horse. He watches it whirl, jerk, and buck for a few seconds before the man on its back falls and is nearly stomped on by raging hooves. It's hard for him to imagine people do this as a pastime. "What I think of Alfred…" he mumbles to himself as he thinks of what to say. "He's arrogant, somewhat dull-witted – or at least he seemed to have no interest in actually being in class. He's far too handsome and flaunts far too much to be healthy, and his voice is brackish and loud – not to mention that _accent_. He might as well not have a lower jaw, if you ask me."

"Mhmm." Elizaveta raises a brow at him and waits for the slump of the Englishman's shoulders and the heavy sigh that tells her he's going to finally relent in his attack of character.

"But…" And Arthur draws the word out, as if it's painful to shine a bright light on the young American. "What he lacks in humility, he makes up for in kindness. He's a generous fool and I hate that bloody delightful smile of his. It's impossible to imagine that he doesn't have some little whore following him every step."

Elizaveta chuckles softly. "That's the most you've had to say about anyone in a long time you know." She pokes him on the shoulder and Arthur winces. He couldn't wait to get home and examine the extent of his sunburns. "But here's what I know. Alfred F. Jones is _gay_." She waits a moment to let that fact settle over Arthur as he stares absently towards the arena. "I also know that he has a little – ehm, 'puppy crush' on you. I mean you would know this too if you'd just ask around. Either way I'm surprised he finally got the courage to invite you anywhere – even if it's not a _date_ or anything." She smiles at Arthur and he simply blinks at her. "I bet all that confidence of his is just a front, you know? I bet he's actually really shy."

Arthur doesn't say anything for a few minutes and they simply turn to watch the competition in front of them. Elizaveta cheers and boos with the crowd, nudging Arthur when it's Alfred's turn on the rioting horses. Everyone around them cheers and hollers as Alfred and the horse burst from the small wooden cage. Arthur can barely see anything, but he can almost feel the seriousness exuding from the American as he's jerked around on the horse. His eyes flick back and forth from Alfred to the timer, uncertain of how any of it even works – just that it looks dangerous and he would feel less tense sitting in the middle of a rugby field.

"Wow," Elizaveta breathes out, "He stayed on all eight seconds! He's only the second guy to do that so far."

"I suppose it's rather impressive," he concedes quietly. There isn't much left for them to talk about as Arthur stews over his new information. Is he supposed to be impressed? Flattered? Certainly his chest feels much tighter than before, and his stomach his making nervous churns in the cradle of his belly, but for all he knows it could all just be hearsay.

The arena clears of contestants, riders, and tamers so it can be leveled once again for the next competition. The scores won't be announced for a while yet, but Arthur doesn't think he can actually wait to find out. He excuses himself from Elizaveta and trots towards the white tents, his rolled trouser legs coming undone and flopping back down to cover his legs while he held his shoes in one hand and carefully maneuvered through suspicious clumps of dirt, horse manure, and strange looking plants that might have been burrs.

He approaches the small tent that Alfred had pointed out to him, looking up for a moment to curse the sun, his situation, and his tumultuous thoughts. Then he decides to just get it over with so he can take an ice bath. Arthur clears his throat and pushes his way into the tent.

Inside is smaller than he would have guessed, and there's a box fan in the corner hooked up to an orange extension cord pushing around hot, stale air. It's hardly a relief from the blistering American sun, but Arthur doesn't care too much about that. Alfred is standing in the corner with his shirt off holding up a small mirror to himself as he examines a bruise that stretches from his shoulder to just above the joint of his elbow. It's beginning to purple in the center and Arthur winces involuntarily at the sight.

"Are you quite alright?" Alfred jumps in surprise at his voice and Arthur stutters at the reaction. "I'm sorry for not properly, ah, making my presence known," he says quickly as that blinding smile begins to form on Alfred's sun-kissed face.

"Oh it's no problem! S'not like there's a door fer ya to knock on." He beckons Arthur further into the tent, setting down the mirror and picking up a jar of ointment. "Can ya help me out real quick? This is gunna be nasty bruise, but I can't see it all. Could'ja slap summa this on it fer me? Please?"

Arthur hesitates a moment before walking further into the tent to take the salve from Alfred. Alfred eyes him for a moment and his smile dims slightly. "How come yer not wearin' no shoes? Aren't ya worried 'bout the copperheads?"

"Copperheads…?" Arthur opens the jar and peers at the thick cream for a moment. "No, actually I don't want to know what that is. I just find it too unbearably hot for shoes – I was too uncomfortable to put them back on, though I suppose I ought to do that soon, hm?"

He scoops a healthy amount of the salve on his fingers and bids Alfred to stand still. "Is this from when you fell?" he asks as he gently begins smoothing the cream onto Alfred's bruised skin. "Or… not fell, but jumped? Elizaveta mentioned that it's only timed for eight seconds?"

"An' it's the longest eight seconds of yer life, if ya ask me. You'd think with all that adrenaline runnin' through ya, it'd be so quick ya'd forget it even happened, but it's like slow motion, an' ya can hear yer own heartbeat. S'great. I love it." He rolls his should slightly under Arthur's touch. "Even if it is a lil' dangerous at times, I think it's worth it."

Arthur hums, not sure if he agrees or not as he begins to let his fingers wander over the extensive bruise, carefully massaging the cream into the American's skin as he subtly explores the sweeping lines and swells of Alfred's shoulders and muscles. He swallows thickly. Alfred is strong.

No longer trusting himself, Arthur manages to pull his curious fingers away from Alfred's skin, wishing to touch the goose-pimpled flesh once again. "I, uhm… came to return your hat – as you asked."

Alfred pauses; his blue eyes are trained on Arthur's face as if to scrutinize every single emotion or thought that may pass across his face at any moment. "You can keep it," he says slowly. "As a souvenir if ya want. I mean, I s'pose s'not every day ya get to go to the rodeo."

"No, I guess it's not." His fingers tangle back into that leather string and he contemplates what Elizaveta told him for a moment and decides he wants to try and disprove it. "Why did you want to know if Elizaveta was my girlfriend? You're a great chap Alfred, I'm sure if you ask her out she would certainly agree to a date."

"I… oh. Oh nah, that's not – definitely not what I meant!" Alfred steps back and crosses his arms over his naked chest as if to protect himself. "I don' like 'Liza. Not like that anyway. She's a great gal, yeah, but I… I'm not much for the gals." There's an embarrassed look on Alfred's face – something upset yet too dignified to be humiliation. To Arthur it says '_I thought you knew_'.

"I want to thank you for inviting me here. I do enjoy getting different scopes of American culture, as there is so much to see. I'm sure your rodeos and the middle country are often overlooked for California and New England areas. I find it particularly charming in itself," he babbles, feeling the heat rising to his face with a vengeance that might as well strike him down where he stands. He groans softly and wipes at the sweat that has accumulated under the band of the hat. "It would be much more tolerable if you weren't so hot."

Alfred stiffens in his spot. "Did… did'ja jus' call me hot?" he questions, a suspicious smile rising to his lips.

They're both awkward and Arthur can feel his face and ears growing warmer than his sunburns. There's no way to fix his slip of tongue without embarrassing himself further, so he hopes for a change of topic. He pulls the hat off of his head and hugs it to his chest. "Is… is it alright if I keep your hat for… other reasons?" he asks instead, unable to meet Alfred's clear blue eyes.

"What do ya mean _other reasons_? What other reasons could'ja have?" Cautiously Alfred steps closer to Arthur, reaching out as if to hold the Englishman's shoulders, but not touching him. "Do… you want it ta be a gift? An important gift? O-or jus'… jus' from someone _special_?"

Arthur thinks for a moment, staring at the dirt and grass under his dirty feet. "An important gift from someone special," he concedes softly. "Is… that alright?" He chances a look up to see a curling smile on Alfred's face and he steps forward carefully. "Elizaveta told me… I didn't believe her, you know. You're quite the amiable fellow, Alfred. I don't believe that you'd be interested in someone such as me." Arthur manages to smile at Alfred. There was a small pit of worry in his stomach, telling him he might have read the situation wrong, that perhaps he was only seeing and thinking what he wanted to, and not what was really there.

Women loved Alfred and Alfred loved himself. Not Arthur – not him.

"Yer different," Alfred says, daring a step towards Arthur. "An' ya work hard at school, even though ya forget a pencil or a pen every time. Yer smart, funny, an' well _I_ think yer cute – I mean, if ya don't mind me thinkin' so."

"Could I stop you from thinking such a preposterous thing?" Arthur asks and responds to Alfred by taking another step closer so they're less than an arm's length apart. He can see Alfred's toned chest heaving with quick, nervous breaths.

Alfred gives a crooked smile. "Nah," he mutters and reaches out to grab Arthur's arms, his hands rubbing up and down, from the Englishman's shoulders to his wrists, over and over. "Gosh – I never thought…" He stops talking and grins at Arthur and Arthur wants to melt for another reason than the heat. "Hey Arthur?"

"Hm?" is Arthur's soft response. He had dropped the grip on the hat in his hands, letting it dangle from his wrist by the leather cord he was fond of tangling about his fingers in favor of dragging his fingers over Alfred's slightly sweaty skin in front of him. Arthur caressed each curve and muscle he could without being offensive – simply allowing the knowledge seep in that Alfred would let Arthur touch him – that Alfred was more than the campus gossip painted him as.

"Would'ja… like ta go out with me?" Alfred's hands stop on his shoulders briefly and then crawl upwards, over the sides of his neck to cup his face and tilt his chin upwards. "I ain't all worldly an' such, but I'm sure I can show ya a few things 'bout 'Merican culture."

Arthur doesn't reply, only tilts his head further and presses his lips warmly to Alfred's because Alfred is just that kind of boy – the kind who smiles too big and loves too hard. He's sure Alfred will devour him in his burning passions, jealousy, love, possession, and warmth.

And he lets it happen because he is the kind that wants it.


End file.
